


Poses

by platoapproved



Category: White Collar
Genre: Character Study, Ficlet, M/M, Pretentious, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-21
Updated: 2010-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platoapproved/pseuds/platoapproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An imagined first meeting between Peter and Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poses

They meet at an art gallery, in front of the Millais. Peter keeps stepping too close, intruding into the personal space of the masterpieces.  
  
“Sir,” Neal says for the third time, blasé in his museum-issue security uniform, “Stay behind the green line, please.”  
  
“I can’t read the thing!” Peter gripes, gesturing at the mounted information card beside the painting. He continues, with an air of personal affront, “You can’t put the line two yards away and then write the names in tiny font. It’s ridiculous.”  
  
“I didn’t put any lines anywhere,” Neal rebuts, with a smirk, “I’m just here to observe.” He enjoys his own private double entendre. Observe the patrons, observe the paintings, observe the security systems and find their flaws, sooner or later. Any combination of the above.  
  
Neal has been watching Peter methodically make his way around the room, hands clasped behind his back, examining one painting after another. He is not enjoying himself. Neal is amused by his obvious disappointment and boredom. Neal can tell that the badge clipped to Peter’s belt is FBI.  
  
“My shift is over in two minutes.” Neal offers the information, unprompted. “Why don’t you buy me an overpriced espresso at the museum café, G-Man?”  
  
Peter stammers around three ways of saying _no, of course not, what are you implying,_ and nods.  
  
At the table, Neal performs well, all mannerism and wit. He covers Peter’s silence with charm, conversation, and private little smiles. His constructed quips and sideways glances quiver in the air like bubbles before they evaporate, leaving no trace. His teeth are white, his hair is perfect – he knows without the vulgar need to check. The uniform is cheap, mass-produced, thoroughly blue-collar, but he makes it look good. He has deliberately loosened the tie, undone his cuff buttons. Delight in disorder. Neal is beginning to believe Peter is a tight tie he will enjoy loosening.   
  
Peter spreads butter thickly on a bagel, eats it steadily, puts his elbows on the table and spills crumbs on his lap.  
  
Neal tells Peter a story about being a nude model for art students. It is true, or untrue, or both. He knows this will make Peter inevitably imagine him, naked and the more beautiful of the two, admired by aesthetic experts and sensitive young men, unattainable and yet available. His hand, when he places it on Peter’s thigh beneath the table, is hot and confident.  
  
“You do that a lot, don’t you, George,” Peter says through his final bite of bagel, using the name on Neal’s forged security badge.  
  
“Do what?” Neal asks.  
  
“Pose.”  
  
Peter gets to his feet, brushing off the bagel crumbs onto the floor with impunity. He says a brusque “goodbye”, pushing his chair back into place and leaving Neal alone at the table with his half-empty coffee. Neal sits stunned, eyes following Peter as he opens the museum’s glass door, letting himself out, disappearing into the overexposed white of the New York street.


End file.
